Jazz's optics cycled open. Almost instantly, readings flooded his processor- new calculations for weight distribution, predicted balance, and a shifted center of gravity- a single, flashing update informed him that both legs and receptors were now fully functional.
It took a moment to recall how and when exactly that the repairs had taken place, but once he did the minibot swore. Quickly, he dismissed the auto-scans and focused on clearing his blurred vision.
Unsurprisingly, audio input was filtered first.
Voices. Far enough away not to be an immediate threat, but still within scanning distance.
Too close, in his opinion, but there wasn't much to be done about it.
Swinging his legs over the side of his cot, almost surprised at the free range of motion, Jazz inspected his new surroundings. It was a new cell- smaller than before, but cleaner. Grey, of course. A low berth jutted out from one wall beneath him, and a small cube of low-grade rested on the closer corner of a small table.
He considered the fluid for a moment before mentally shrugging it away. He was still bleary from his forced recharge, but past the mental static he could feel a measure of his old strength returned to his frame.
The mech flexed his palms, contemplative.
Frag, he realized, haven't felt this good since…
…Pit, since Iacon fell.
An involuntary shudder rattled his struts. It hadn't been so long, but it felt like aeons since Megatron had united the lesser states against the domed city.
Images of smoke and flame flickered behind his visor; He hadn't been in the city itself at the time of the attack, but he'd been near enough to hear the screams of the ones who hadn't been so lucky.
Sparklings and mecha-
He shook them all away, refusing to legitimize his own barely-reined paranoia. The strike hadn't come as a complete surprise, after all- tensions had been high between the wealthy district and the lower areas for a long time before Megatron came along. The civil war between Tarn and Vos had only been the tipping point. From there, nobody could have predicted it could've gone so bad so fast.
No, he thought, it hadn't been that long at all.
Finally he made the decision to reach for the pale blue cube at his side.
It glinted in the dim light as he pulled it back- on closer observation, he found that the it had a faint pearly sheen that floated close to the bottom. Lifting it upwards and sharpening his secondary optical relays, he found that the slick was in fact an incredibly fine crystallized compound that's been dissolved into a heavy solution.
"It's just a nutritional additive."
The unexpected voice cut into his defensive protocols like a knife.
Nearly dropping the cube, the minibot's helm whipped around to see that a mech had just arrived outside his cell. Coal-cherry plating seemed to jump across the space dividing them; It was the Medic who'd patched his leg, scowling and flipping harshy through a small stack of documents.
How long he had been there, Jazz didn't know- normally, he would've heard their approach. He frowned.
The medic caught his look.
"I thought it best to leave your audio enhancers offline for the time being," he supplied, gesturing with a data pad. "Whoever installed those mods did a decent job."
Jazz took the observation as an invitation.
"Friend ah mine. Took a long drive off a short dock."
"Hm."
He watched the red and white 'bot glance down and scan something on the pad, then glyph something quickly on a new page.
"The same mech who hacked your Optic job?"
It took a disproportionate amount of effort to resist reaching up to touch his visor. "Nah, different mecha."
"Hm." Another scribble. "You do realize that a considerable percentage of your systems are being drained to support those additions?"
Well yeah, he did.
"It ain't nothing' Ah can't handle."
"It "Ain't nothing" that wouldn't e better off fixing now, before it becomes a problem, either," the mech growled, somehow managing to fold his arms around his jumbled armload. "How's the leg integrating?"
Somehow, Jazz was getting the distinct impression that the 'bot was actually interested in his answer. Of course, he knew it was basic routine to perform a follow-up on any significant repairs to a mecha's systems, but many ex-mechanics and field medics he's encountered had treated such processes as redundancies, extra work-
This one was eyeing his own work as he waited for an answer, a look in his optic appearing as though was tempted to open it up and check for himself.
Jazz rotated his joints obligingly before lifting himself off the berth, applying a light amount of pressure to the limb to test the welds. He was surprised to find that they held up rather well, even on the tricky maintainence hatches where the seams drooped tight around his smaller joints.
It felt good. Different, but not painful.
"Yeh left mah wheels the same," he noticed at last.
The Autobot nodded. "Yes, I did. The tire is the same, but the well is new- I was hoping to splice as much of your original parts with the new components as possible, but most of them were lost in the smelting ovens."
That stirred something in his memory banks.
"Ah was dumped in the scrap pile," he realized.
The medic nodded, confirming his partial guess. "You fell off the belt three metres from the primary unit. Twenty kliks, and you'd be a patch weld on our Third's aft right now. You can thank the monitor crew later for doing a second sweep before tradeoff, or you'd have probably bled out on the floor."
Jazz was silent for a moment. "What's yer designation, mech?"
The answer was quick, confident.
"Ratchet."
The minibot grinned. "Jazz. Good tah meet'cha."
There were three mecha every mech had to be nice to, Jazz had learned. Just three.
The Commander, the Detailer, and the Medic.
The mech, Ratchet, smirked. "A pleasure, I'm sure."
Jazz laughed.
When Jazz had first started out in his particular line of work, He'd learned early that it was easier to survive if you were liked. Weakness was only useful if it got you ignored and underestimated, and strength and violence only stretched so far before they had to be proven. Charm was efficient. Mecha liked a mech who could crack a joke at the right time. An odd grin here, a quip there- At first, it had bothered him, going so roughly against his natural grain, but he'd grown accustomed to it, carried the new persona with him everywhere, a second layer of armor. Mecha didn't want to hurt him, and if they did he'd just give them a sad smile and say he forgave them and the guilt would rot sparks from the insides out.
He didn't like to think about it anymore. When he did, part of him wondered if he'd always been that way, smiles and a laugh over a bed of calculation, but his spark rejected the possibility.
He hadn't always been so cold. He could remember that. Clips and snatches of memory still remained to keep him grounded, keep him fighting against the little nagging voice that whispered evil when he went into recharge.
Ratchet, Jazz found, was not a bad mech. He noticed himself relaxing into casual conversation for a short time before the medic had left, called out to check on a patient, (No, not one of yours, he'd been informed, and that was the only time any tone close to accusing had come up).
"I'll be back in a few orns to sand down that weld seam," the medic had called on his way out. "Don't frag it up!"
Long, painful silence had followed.
Incarceration was, unfortunately, nothing new to Jazz. He'd sunk into the reality of his situation rather quickly. Still, he wasn't used to the total lack of stimuli. There weren't any inmates, no prisoners next block over, no guardsmechs pacing ten metres from his block.
Nothing.
Four joors later, he was going to rip his hem in two.
He was out of music, out of vid relays, he'd scanned over all his old image captures.
He growled. He was in storage. He was being ignored. Locked up until someone decided what they were doing with him, and his only choice was to wait it out.
He didn't like being ignored. It made him testy.
After awhile though, he'd simply resigned himself to laying back on the hard berth-mat, counting his vents quietly and desperately willing his systems to click into recharge while is processors whirred incessantly. He'd finished his energon before the medic had left, and something in the mix had left him jittery and more restless than usual.
Systems probably not used to being fueled again, he'd figured, and continued pacing his ventilations.
He was still flat on his back with one arm over his helm in another two joors, when his cell door opened with a click.
It was not who he had been expecting.